Fairytales & Castles
by Miss Peg
Summary: A collections of one-shots about The Mentalist, notably single character fics. Current Update: Inside My Heart Is Breaking - Jane considers the affect things have had on Van Pelt. Season Four spoilers, possibly.
1. Castles Made of Sand

**Title: **Castles Made of Sand

**Author:** Miss Peg

**Rating:** PG

**Characters: **Jane

**Summary: **Like sandcastles, life can be destroyed in many different ways.

**Prompt:** I was sat on a beach watching people build sandcastles, I'd been rewatching Red Tide with my parents and so the plot bunnies started multiplying.

**Notes: **This is my first proper Jane fic, the first time I've ever written a story from his point of view. Please forgive me.

'_'Cause on and on and on he goes dancing on the grave, Of what he thought was still alive on and on and on he goes, Dancing in mansions made of twigs and castles made of sand'_

The tide teetered ever so closer as the sun began to set over the evening. Jane stood on the edge of the beach with his black loafers in his hand and his toes resting on the precipice between wet and dry. Each wave travelled a little further in land, engulfing his feet quickly. The bottoms of his trousers rolled up around his ankles to avoid the splash of new waves.

He watched the water for a while as each wave crept up on the earth and devoured it like a hungry man might eat a burger from a back alley trash can. He turned on the spot, watching with starry eyes as the water exploded in a hole further along the beach. A small tower built of sand collapsed into it, taken prisoner by the wave until the tide trekked back towards the ocean, leaving behind the destruction. He walked slowly through the shallowest part of the water until he reached the land that had been shattered by the expanse of water. He reached into the white wisps of foam to retrieve a small paper flag that signalled the sand home of some king and queen, created earlier that day by a child playing on the beach.

He thought of Charlotte, his beautiful little girl and in his mind's eye he watched her fill a bucket with sand, pat down the earth and tip it up, only for the castle to crumble before the bucket had reached its upright position. She tried and tried, each attempt ending up very different to what she'd imagined, until finally she learnt how to build a sandcastle. Something that she'd never had the chance to do. He'd wanted to take her to the beach, to take her on vacation somewhere nice, he'd wanted to do all sorts of things. He just hadn't had the chance, hadn't made time for the chance.

The sand that once was a child's castle ran through his fingers, sticking to his skin like limpets securing themselves on rocks. In the hours he'd spent on the beach, trying to get information about the young woman's death, he'd seen people come and go. All ages, all walks of life, all travelling the same stretch of sand in order to achieve something. That old man building castles with his grandchildren, that teenager learning to surf, that small child taking their very first steps into the cool depths of the ocean. None of them cared for the dangers around them, in that moment, as they got lost in the enjoyment of life.

He'd watched later in the day, as families picked up their half-eaten sandwiches and empty bags of chips and traipsed towards the car park, or the few homes dotted along the edge of the shore. He'd seen a couple of boys destroy walls of sand they'd built and used as forts, along with a boat they're carefully crafted in the beach.

How easy it was to destroy anything made of sand. How easy it was to do the same with life.

Sometimes you destroyed your life with your own bare hands, like he had done five years earlier. He'd made a mistake, trampled all over the name of a serial killer and for what? To catch him? To show the world that he was the greatest psychic that ever lived? To feed his own ego? A question he still struggled to answer. If his life had been made of sand, he would have been the one to walk all over it, destroy it with his hands and feet before anyone else could do it for him.

Like the girl. Not even sixteen. She'd already witnesses more death and struggle in her short years, living with a drunk for a father and helping to bring up her siblings. Killed mercilessly by her best friends. They destroyed her castle.

He watched the water continue to ascend up the beach, washing away pebbles, catching his feet as he bounced around in the edge of the ocean until he came upon another sandcastle. Three towers built together with a fourth sitting on top. He knelt down in front of it and closed his eyes, listening to the water as it smashed through each wall. When he opened them again, it was gone. The space he'd found full of sand, was now empty, lifeless, the same as every other patch of sand on the beach.

He wondered what would one day happen to him. If he wasn't killed by Red John or accidentally shot on some other CBI case, that was. He didn't expect his death to be at the hands of another, nor did he expect it to be at the hands of himself. That ship had sailed and he'd chosen not to ride it. Instead he would go naturally, he imagined. The same was as those castles sitting on the beach, thankful that nobody knocked them down, expecting to survive until the next day. Then the water comes. The world's biggest destroyer. No, he wouldn't be murdered and he wouldn't commit suicide, he would be washed away like the castles made of sand.


	2. Friend Nor Foe

**Title**: Friend Nor Foe  
><strong>Author<strong>: Miss_Peg  
><strong>Rating<strong>: R  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Jane/Lisbon  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Anger doesn't change matters of the heart.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: The Mentalist is not mine…if it was, I would give it to tromana for Christmas.  
><strong>Notes<strong>: Set post 3x24 Strawberries and Cream. Written for the Paint It Red ficathon and mentalistprompt. I originally wrote this to match the weekly prompt from MP, but instead decided to use it for my table as it fits a prompt on there too.

**Friend Nor Foe**

The last place Lisbon wanted to be on the day after being discharged from hospital, was a jail. Jane sat across from her wearing an orange jumpsuit, his right eye swelled from an attack that had happened since his arrival. She drummed her fingers on the table and let out a deep sigh. How had she been coaxed there so quickly? Three requests had been made for her to visit him, two of which had gone via the office and the final one straight to the hospital itself.

'Talk to me Teresa, we're friends, you can tell me anything,' Jane muttered, reaching a hand out to stop her from tapping the table. They'd been sitting there for fifteen minutes and she hadn't spoken a word. She stilled, allowing his hand to cup hers. She didn't want to allow it, but she couldn't seem to pull herself away either.

'We're not friends,' she responded, sternly. 'We're colleagues.'

'Do you honestly believe that?'

She looked into his eyes and tried her best to show him just how genuine she was. Over the years he'd treated her like someone other than a colleague and for the most part she'd accepted it.

'I honestly do.'

'After everything we've been through together.'

He didn't understand, even now, he didn't seem to grasp just how seriously things had changed. They were no longer colleagues, would probably never be colleagues again. They certainly couldn't be anything more serious either, not now, not ever.

'You _murdered_ someone Jane;' she said softly, confidently enough for him to fully understand how serious she was. 'You shot Red John in a public shopping mall in front of hundreds of witnesses.'

'You've always known I was going to kill him, Lisbon,' he noted, as though her knowledge of said event would make up for what he'd done. 'It was Red John, what did you expect me to do?'

'I don't know,' she answered honestly. What did she expect? She couldn't be sure. The years had taken their toll and she'd accepted his defiance of the rules, but ultimately, she felt responsible for his actions. 'I hoped I would be there to stop you.'

'That's not your fault; it had to be this way. I couldn't let you be there, I couldn't allow you to witness it.'

She didn't reply and he didn't fill the growing silence either. Instead he squeezed her hands between his and they sat with their hands together on the table. The physical contact, a type of contact she'd never really been graced with, brought tears to the backs of her eyes. She would not cry. She couldn't allow that to happen. Least not in a small room in the middle of a jail.

'I couldn't do it in front of you, if I did, I wouldn't have gone through with it.'

'More reason to have me there,' she gasped, her own grip tightening around his skin.

'No,' Jane shouted, defiantly. 'Red John _had_ to die. Don't you see? He killed more than my family, Lisbon. He killed people I love, people _you_ love, just to get to me. Surely you can understand.'

'No, I don't understand,' she snapped, retrieving her hands and banging the table in frustration. 'You don't take the law into your own hands, no matter how hard it may be.'

He didn't reply. Nor did he even look at her. She watched his gaze remain downward, something she never thought she'd see from Jane. He always looked so sure of himself, so open and friendly with his demeanour. Now, she couldn't quite place him.

'You still believe what you did was the right thing, don't you?' she questioned, furrowing her brow as he lifted his chin.

'Yes. It was absolutely the right thing to do.'

She stood, pushing her chair back from the edge of the table. As an officer of the law, she couldn't condone his actions; she wouldn't ever be able to accept what he'd done. That much she was clear of, whether she wanted to or not, she couldn't.

'Then I hope you rot in jail.'

She turned to walk from the room, her small frame taking advantage of the space around her in order to swing her arms. She stopped at the door, Jane's voice freezing her to the spot.

'You don't mean that.'

How could she answer such a statement? She turned back to him and stared deep into his sorrowful eyes. He may not have felt remorse for what he'd done, but even he couldn't deny that he did feel regretful. She could see it in his eyes. He liked to hide his emotions, but now, now he was showing her everything.

'No,' she sighed, stepping back toward the table and sitting down again. 'I don't.'

His tight lips curved ever so slightly at the corners as she reached out to grasp his fingers again. His palms had grown clammy and she grappled with the sweat for a firm grip. She didn't want to leave, nor did she want Jane to rot in jail. If anything, she wanted the last week to reverse so that she could be there in the shopping mall, so that she could stop him from making the biggest mistake since appealing to the serial killer. Their story had begun on a mistake and even though he refused to admit his failings, it was ending on one too.

'You can talk to me,' Jane repeated. 'I'm your friend.'

'No,' she shook her head, squeezing her eyes tightly closed.

'No?'

'We'll never be friends, Jane.'

She stared back into his eyes with every ounce of emotion she could muster. No, they wouldn't ever be friends. He knew that as well as she did, only, neither of them could tell the other just how much they cared.


	3. Christmas at the Lisbons

Title: Christmas at the Lisbon's

Author: miss_peg

Rating: K+

Summary: Lisbon wakes up on Christmas morning with the thought of lots of memories.

Notes: Written for a holiday fic challenge on livejournal. For frogster's prompt Christmas at the Lisbon's about Teresa Lisbon.

Teresa Lisbon lay in bed on Christmas morning with a migraine fast approaching. She didn't care much for the pain, or the day itself. It had been a constant reminder of the things she didn't have in her life ever since her mother died. The last thing she needed on any given day, especially a day which she was forced to spend alone, was a reminder that her loneliness was mostly unavoidable.

Her brother, Tommy, had invited her to Tucson, Arizona where he was spending the holiday with her niece, Annabeth. Despite her reservations about the cabin in the woods her brother had rented and his offering of cooking Christmas dinner, the thing that pulled her away from making firm plans was the knowledge that she would have to work the day after. The family Christmas she had long ago envisaged slipped from her fingers most years because of her job.

She closed her eyes and pushed aside the feelings of regret at not seeing her family over the holidays and instead tried to remember something happier. At first her mind travelled to the case they were working on, which she'd begrudgingly abandoned in order to take Christmas Day off work. She didn't much care to be thinking about work at Christmas but it was the next best thing to the alternative. Instead a jolly, old, fat man jumped into her brain and try as she might to rid herself of the intense feeling of excitement, she could not.

He was a store Santa that she'd visited at the mall one Christmas as a child. She barely remembered the day except that her family was made up of only herself and the eldest of her brothers. She could still remember her mother pushing her towards the man with the white hair and red suit, assuring her that no matter what happened she would be okay.

No.

Lisbon pushed the thought aside along with a tear which had escaped the corner of her eye. She wasn't doing this, not now, not ever. And especially not when she was feeling her worst.

Before she could force something less significant into her mind, her attention drifted off to the lounge room of the house she grew up in. Every year before her mom died she would come home from school in early December to find the tallest of fir trees in the corner of the room. Looking back, it probably wasn't much taller than your average grown man, but to a small Teresa Lisbon, it had appeared gigantic.

No.

She didn't want to remember decorating the tree. Regardless of how warm the memories of her mom had been. Thinking back over them only made her heart ache.

She opened her eyes and cursed loudly, reaching for her necklace around her neck before saying a brief prayer. She longed to forget everything that was quickly filling her thoughts but even holding that necklace, her hand began to shake.

The first Christmas without their mother had been the worst, they had no tree, they didn't eat much more than peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and her father drank himself into a near-coma before lunchtime.

Until he woke up after nine.

She remembered it clearest of any of her earlier memories, even more so than the day she was told her mom wouldn't ever be coming home again. She'd been sat on the couch watching It's A Wonderful Life trying her best not to cry for their recent loss. He'd sat beside her, patted her knee and told her how much her mom would be missing her. Then he handed her the box and disappeared into his bedroom to sleep off the alcohol. Her hands had shaken as she opened the box and carefully and held the necklace up in her hand.

Her mother's gold cross that now hung around her neck, the only thing she had left of the woman she'd once aspired to be like but had long since forgotten the scent of.

Christmas just wasn't the same after that.


	4. Inside My Heart Is Breaking

Title: Inside My Heart Is Breaking

Author: miss_peg

Rating: PG

Summary: Jane and Lisbon discuss Red John being found guilty in court.

Notes: More holiday fics! A reminder that whilst many people did them in December I had lots going on (and quite frankly it was a good idea not to do it then as I was highly unmotivated) so I'm doing it in January along with tromana.

Today's story is for ruuger's prompt Inside my heart is breaking. My make-up may be flaking. But my smile still stays on for the characters Jane and Van Pelt from The Mentalist. I hope you like it!

She sat on a bench on her own every day and though he tried his best to ignore it, he couldn't deny how sad it made him feel. She smiled at her colleagues and the other employees at the CBI and yet he knew that she didn't mean it.

It was his fault.

She grew angry and frustrated at even the simplest of tasks that she had once been able to perform flawlessly. Her desperation to please had been destroyed. And yet she smiled her way through it, a fake smile made up of a desire to forget.

It was his fault.

She sat at her desk and listened to the rest of the team's banter, smiling weakly whenever they directed anything at her, then disappeared into the bathroom. He followed her one day and heard her sobs from the other side of the door.

It was his fault.

She assured everyone that she was fine and carried on with her daily life as though nothing had ever happened. She acted like she'd moved on, with the world, turning with it and yet he knew that she was trapped in a cycle of pain. He watched her sometimes, when she was in mid-thought, sat at her desk, staring into space. Then when she saw him looking, she smiled at him. He could see the flaw behind the lines.

It was his fault.

If he hadn't started working for the CBI then he wouldn't have sent a very public plea to Red John, if he hadn't made that plea then his family wouldn't have suffered in death and if his family hadn't died he wouldn't have continued working with the CBI with the aim of seeking revenge.

Had he not sought revenge then Red John wouldn't have placed a mole in the organisation, a mole who gave his sole attention to Grace Van Pelt, made her fall in love with him.

If he hadn't made her fall in love with him then he wouldn't have shot Lisbon and Grace wouldn't have had to shoot and kill her fiancé.

And if she hadn't shot and killed her fiancé, then she wouldn't have sat on a bench on her own every day.

It was his fault.


	5. The End

**Title**: The End  
><strong>Author<strong>: Miss_Peg  
><strong>Rating<strong>: M  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Lisbon  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Lisbon would always try to save her team, no matter what.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I originally started to write a drabble, then I kept writing and this is what happened. I don't apologise for angst, so, sorry if you're not happy, but it is what it is.

The chill ran down her spine like a drop of water on a cold glass. She didn't want to continue forward and yet the desire to save the day kept her feet moving. It was her team in danger, her colleagues, her _friends_. She wasn't about to let some half brained serial killer slaughter them, it didn't matter who he thought he was. She was going to put herself on the line because that's what the boss was supposed to do, or at least that's what she believed they should do.

If she wasn't willing to die for her team, she didn't deserve their respect. So she walked, one foot in front of the other into the room, her wrist resting on her other hand, her gun settled firmly between her fingers.

The room was empty.

She searched behind a cupboard door, under a desk and every nook and cranny

Nothing.

Her heart had leapt into her throat, bile surfaced just enough to force a wave of sickness over her. How were they gone? She was adamant this was the correct location, she'd checked her satellite navigation system several times, she'd read the text message even more. Where were they?

Then she noticed it; the carpet covering a spot in the centre of the room, the uneven surface showing off a hidden door. She placed her gun in its holster and threw herself onto the floor. She pushed the carpet aside, fumbling around the wooden surface for a handle or a latch that would allow her entrance.

There was no time to worry about what was on the other side. Whether her colleagues were already dead, whether Red John was there waiting to shoot her should she discover their hiding place.

Her fingers brushed against cold metal, she stopped moving, hooking her finger around the loop of the handle. She pulled her gun out once more, preparing it for the moment when she could shoot the bastard dead.

She had to be ready.

The door creaked when she lifted it, the groaning noise deafening. If she didn't know any better she'd have assumed the door was old and needed oiling. Realistically, Red John would have known that and simply chosen not to deal with it. Why bother when it can be your best line of defence?

She closed her eyes for a second, whispering a prayer before walking down the wooden steps into the basement. Bile settled at the back of her throat as an unsettling smell infiltrated her lungs. Her nerves got the better of her. She could still escape, run away, be the sole survivor of a horrific slaughtering.

Then a light flickered on and her cowardice appeared misplaced. Her team sat in a row by the back wall, bound and gagged but very much alive. Had she left, maybe they wouldn't be. She reminded herself never to doubt her abilities again and jumped down the last couple of steps. She wished to go to her team, to remove the material from their mouths, but she knew they weren't alone. Whatever she tried to do next would be under the watchful eye of a mass murderer.

'Glad you could join us, Teresa.'

She shivered. Her heart raced to the beat of a drum in her chest. He was stood barely inches from her face, she could feel him there. The serial killer, the man they had spent years trying to track down and there they were, lined up in a row waiting the moment he killed them. She didn't expect him to have mercy on them, after all.

Her gun wielding arm lost all sense of movement and her gun fell to the floor. She wanted to control it, she wanted to shoot him. She wasn't even sure why she couldn't. Then she fell backwards, landing on the base of her spine, a mistake she would regret for several days, should she survive.

The stench grew stronger the lower she sat. She looked around in the dark, until her eyes settled into the dim light and she spotted several corpses perched against the opposing wall. She recognised them. Bertram. Wainwright. Even Ron. She closed her eyes, preyed silently with the hope that somehow there would be a miracle.

'Now you're all here,' Red John laughed. 'Your time in this world is over.'

Lisbon jumped at the sound of the gun exploding several times, inches from her face. She turned to her left where each member of her team slumped down, their lifeless bodies destroyed in less than a minute. She stared up into Red John's eyes, begging for his mercy with little more than the expression on her face.

Then he pulled the trigger one final time.

**The End**


End file.
